


the distance between us

by tinyduck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels bad man, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy White Day, Hurt No Comfort, let me tell you when i finished this i just had to lie down for a bit after, tw heavy misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 10:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30037449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyduck/pseuds/tinyduck
Summary: You know Miya Atsumu from the creak of the door, the hushed “Sorry sorry I know ‘m late,” he always says when he sneaks into lecture, a wide smile on his face. Occasionally from the back of his head, more so from the way he kicks the back of your chair the few irritating times he sits behind you. The steady tap of an insistent finger on your shoulder, the corner of his face in your peripheral as he whispers, “Hey, you got a spare pen or somethin’?”All the ways Atsumu fills your life, and the space he ends up leaving behind.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Reader
Comments: 27
Kudos: 73





	the distance between us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Haikyuu Creations Valentine’s collab, combining two prompts together. I don’t want to give away too much of the story, but please enjoy! Maybe one day I’ll stop writing angst for Valentine’s Day/White Day, but today is not that day 🤪

_There’s a loud burst of laughter from a corner of the green, drawing a few curious eyes._

_None of the students milling around there have the weary fatigue that comes with midterms lining their faces; there’s just wide smiles on every one. They’re all humming with energy, buoyed by enthusiasm and good cheer, every single one hooked by the nucleus of their group._

_It’s not difficult to see what everyone’s so enamoured with; sitting smack dab in the middle of a crowd of admirers are the Miya twins, one smirking, the other frowning, just like always. Despite being wholly uninterested in whatever inane conversation their little group is involved in today, their voices clamour incessantly in the air, sharpening and prodding at your study-addled brain as you stare blindly at a list of formulas._

_“I’m just sayin’, you guys keep actin’ like ‘Tsumu’s some kinda god—”_

_“I fuckin’ might be—”_

_“Fuck off—”_

_“—you rude ass—”_

_“You make it sound like you hate your brother.”_

_Osamu smiles indulgently at the sweet redhead who piped up, ignoring his twin’s glower as Atsumu mutters, “ **Thank**_ _you” under his breath._

_“I don’t hate him.” Osamu smiles at his rapt audience. He leans in and everyone else does too, clinging onto every word as his eyes crinkle. “Look. All of you see him and you think he’s some kinda…some kinda hero, but he ain’t shit.”_

_Atsumu protests loud enough to draw your eye, his indignance lost under a flurry of his friends’ limbs as they tell him to hush and let Osamu finish. “Lemme tell you the truth, ‘cause there’s a coupla things about ‘Tsumu you aren’t gonna like.”_

_He raises a finger._

_"One: he never listens.”_

You know Miya Atsumu from the creak of the door, the hushed _“Sorry sorry I know ‘m late,”_ he always says when he sneaks into lecture, a wide smile on his face. Occasionally from the back of his head, more so from the way he kicks the back of your chair the few irritating times he sits behind you. The steady tap of an insistent finger on your shoulder, the corner of his face in your peripheral as he whispers, “ _Hey, you got a spare pen or somethin’?_ ” You’ve lost more pens to him than you’ve lost yourself, so you start bringing your laptop to lecture purely so you can shake your head and tell him _no, sorry. I don’t._

It’s an acquaintance in passing. The moon orbiting the earth, the earth orbiting the sun; always near, always hovering just out of reach, never making contact. That’s why it absolutely does not make an iota of sense why he’s tugging on the back of your backpack, his finger hooked into a loop and pulling you towards him.

He smiles cheerful and friendly, like this is just another regular routine between friends, never mind you’re not entirely sure he even knows your name. “Where’re you headed?”

You glance over your shoulder, looking for the person he must be addressing. Nobody even bothers sparing a look your way and when you turn back he’s still looking at you expectantly, big brown eyes sparkling under his thick eyebrows. “I’m sorry, are you asking me?”

“Who else would I be talkin’ to?”

_Literally anyone_ , is what you want to say, curling your fingers around your backpack straps. “I’m going home.”

“Aw, well that’s no fun.” He probably doesn’t mean to make you bristle, but something in his voice sets you on edge, has you drawing further away. The wariness has yet to leave, only amplified by the amused way Suna and Osamu are watching you, their smiles twitching bigger as your frown deepens. “How ‘boutcha get a coffee with me instead?”

You blink. He smiles wider. “No?”

Atsumu jerks back a little. Behind him, Suna and Osamu are snickering into their elbows, not the least bit subtle. “No?”

Your ears are burning, your tongue heavy in your mouth as you stumble over your words. “Sorry, but I have other things I need to do.”

“O…kay?” His voice trails behind you as you turn on the spot, not even bothering to reciprocate his half-hearted wave goodbye as you try to muddle through your thoughts, trying your best not to trip over the carpet as you make your way down the row. The drone of the ventilation fills the air, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the laugh of one of his friends, the half-muttered,

“Dude, she must _hate_ you—”

You dig out your headphones and shove them in.

It’s not difficult to see how he keeps moving a seat closer every lecture, the two of you shifting around the room in some bizarre form of musical chairs. Sometimes it’s Suna sitting closer to you, sometimes Osamu. On one particularly rainy Monday the only thing separating you and Atsumu is a damp windbreaker draped across an empty seat, your umbrella propped beside it.

The distance doesn’t matter, doesn’t take away from the way you can feel his eyes flicker over to look at you every once in a while, tapping a chewed-up pen on his notebook in between slides. Fixing the brim of his cap. Running a hand through his hair. His gaze burns the side of your face, makes it itch with the urge to look right back at him and ask him just what, exactly, is so fascinating that he can’t look away; but the babbled _no?_ still hangs between the two of you, the soft edge of Suna’s voice muttering, _she must **hate** you _cutting too deep, making you flinch back. So what if he thought that? Why did it matter? As far as you were concerned, the two of you existed in two entirely separate spheres; were a part of two vastly different ecosystems on this sprawling campus.

If you shove your notes together a little hastily at the end of each class you don’t stop to think about it; don’t stop to wonder why you always speed away from him, swinging your bag onto your back like it’ll do anything to shield you from his gaze.

This time he’s sitting beside you, one arm draped casually along the armrest between the two of you, jotting down notes in surprisingly neat writing. You’re pressed up against the opposite side of your desk as much as you can be, trying not to breathe in the smell of fresh coffee and spring rain that clings to his clothing.

“Hey,” he mutters out the corner of his mouth.

You hunch a little more over your laptop, angling yourself away from him.

“Hey.” This time a pen prods your ribs, insistent and annoying. You shoot him a sharp _look_ over your shoulder, and resume jotting down your notes once more, struggling to focus on the lecturer’s droning voice.

You manage to get through one more slide before the pen is back, this time drumming a jaunty beat against your elbow.

“Do you hate me or somethin’?”

You freeze, fingers skidding across your laptop as you furrow your brow and squint at him. “What?”

He scratches the tip of his slightly pink nose. “Well, I mean you seem kinda…uh…kinda mad at me, ya know?”

You grace him with two slow blinks. “We’re in the middle of a lecture.”

“Yeah, but just in general. Just wanna make sure I’m not pissin’ you off or somethin’ like that.” He looks so intensely earnest you blank, whatever biting retort about not all of you being able to skate by on sports scholarships dying on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You choke on your spit a little, struggling to clear your throat as you lean a little closer, voice rushed, “I’m just trying to listen.”

He leans forward a little too, close enough for you to smell the cinnamon gum he’s got tucked between his teeth, a sliver of red sandwiched in the middle of a blindingly white smile. “Sorry, for distractin’ ya.”

You jerk back, elbow knocking against your laptop and nearly sending it careening into the row ahead of you. Your prof pauses at the commotion as you awkwardly bob your head in apology, scrambling to pull yourself together as Atsumu presses his face in his hand and tries not to laugh. The lecture continues and you mentally shake yourself by the shoulders, forcing yourself to focus on the slides instead of the peek of Atsumu’s pretty brown eyes looking your way.

The sound of your keyboard and the scratching of pen on paper lulls you back into a rhythm, so serene you barely notice the muttered cursing beside you, the frantic way Atsumu’s scribbling along the margin of his notebook.

“Hey.”

His shoulder nudges at yours this time, sweet, sugary cinnamon wafting over as he whispers, “You got an extra pen?”

The tingle and subsequent shiver that run through you are nothing more than you forgetting to bring a sweater, you reason. The heat rushing to your cheeks is…well, that’s something you’ll think about later. You give him a sidelong glance, purely out of politeness – nothing more, nothing less.

“Nope.”

When lecture ends a wide hand with perfectly kept fingers lays down on top of your bag, interrupting its easy path onto your shoulders. “Lemme buy you that coffee now.”

You tug futilely at your bag, grimacing at the amused crinkle of his eyes. “Why would you buy me a coffee?”

“To make up for scarin’ you shitless earlier.” He arches an eyebrow. “We can go to the nice place too, none of that drain water from the caf.”

“Don’t you have somebody else you can ask?” You glance past him to a mostly empty lecture hall, at Osamu and Suna diligently staring at their phones, doing their best to look entirely uninterested in your conversation. It escapes your notice that neither of them are scrolling or typing, just blankly staring at black screens, biting the insides of their cheeks.

Atsumu lets out a low whistle, ruffling his hair. “Ahhh…you really _do_ hate me then.”

“I don’t _hate_ you; I just don’t know you.” You tug your bag free, settling the weight of three textbooks onto your protesting shoulders.

“Then you can get to know me now. C’mon. Coffee. Let’s go.” He ushers you out with a few waves of his hand, ignoring your sputtering protests as the two of you maneuver down the row. “Or hot chocolate or somethin’ if you don’t like coffee.”

It must be the training, must be the sheer athleticism from being on a varsity team that keeps his grip firm, that keeps you glued to his side, that has you standing bewildered and confused at the register of the good coffee shop, staring at the wide array of options in front of you.

“Whaddaya want?” Atsumu is looking expectantly at you, flipping his phone around in his hand. You glance at him, still feeling like you’ve been knocked off-kilter, like this is some bizarre practical joke and he’s going to make you pay for him instead, along with everybody else here. He just raises his eyebrows, nods his head back towards the cashier.

Fuck it. You’re not above a free drink. “Earl grey latte, medium, one pump of vanilla.”

Atsumu lets about another low whistle, clicking his teeth when you glance at him again. “Fancy.” He taps his card and ushers you to the side, his finger once again hooked through the loop of your backpack as you jostle up against his side.

“So, what’re your plans after this.”

You’re staring at the counter, resisting the urge to trace a coffee ring with your finger. “Study? Nap? I don’t know?”

Atsumu hums in thought, taps his knuckle right next to yours. “You’re always racin’ outta there. I figured you had a boyfriend or somethin’.”

The prying isn’t subtle in the slightest, but you also don’t have the heart to tell him it’s been happening lately because you were trying to avoid _him_. “No. Just…don’t want to spend more time there than I have to.”

You’re saved from replying by the arrival of your drinks, the smell of lavender and tea curling through the air, the mellow scent a direct contrast to the obscene amount of whipped cream sitting in Atsumu’s cup. It’s already sinking into his coffee under the weight of the equally exorbitant caramel drizzle. Your teeth ache just from the sight of him carefully sipping at his coffee, sinking the mountain of sugar lower below the rim.

“I can hear you judgin’ me,” he says with a grin, licking off the cream clinging to his upper lip as he grabs a pair of lids.

“I’m not,” you half-heartedly lie, grabbing the lid from his hand.

He leans in like he has no semblance of personal space, and from what you’ve experienced thus far he probably _doesn’t_. Taking in a deep breath, he wafts the steam rising from your cup with an overly dramatic gesture. “You get this a lot, huh?”

“I mean I guess.” You snap a lid on, busying yourself with checking and double-checking the seal in favour of thinking about how close he is right now.

You almost miss what he says, the steamer hissing loudly, the blender rattling in the background, the quiet chatter of everyone else around you.

“No wonder you always smell so good.”

But he’s looking at you without flinching, his smile a little sly around the white lid. You almost drop your drink, your mouth falling open a little as you fumble for words.

“… _huh?_ ” is what you decide on, succinct and to the point. His smile grows wider at your fluster.

“You wanna grab coffee next class?”

“I— Um—” You take a sip to settle yourself and wince when it scalds the roof of your mouth, sucking in air as he masks his chuckle as a cough.

“Don’t force yourself or anythin’. Invite’s there though; gotta figure out why you hate me so much.”

“I don’t _hate you_.” Your words are drowned out by a perfectly timed, incredibly loud slurp, and he blinks at you, feigning innocence. His phone buzzes before you scrape together a reply, and he clicks his tongue.

“I gotta go, but I’m tellin’ ya. Next time I see you, I’ll know.” He points at you as he walks away, expertly dodging around people and tables even though he never looks away.

You can’t help yourself, squeezing your cup, pressing the slight burn seeping through your cup sleeve into the pads of your fingers as you ask, against your better judgement, “Know what?”

There’s a smudge of caramel still caught at the corner of his mouth, just as sticky sweet as the boyish smile he flashes at you. “Know how to get on your good side.”

He shoves the door open with his shoulder, the bell jangles, and then he’s gone.

_(Osamu raises a second finger, speaking loudly over Atsumu’s protests._

_“Two: he never gives back what he borrows.”)_

Plastic packages rain down onto your laptop, cascading onto the floor in a wild array of bright lettering.

“What—”

“I figured it out.” Atsumu looks so pleased with himself, grabbing your limp hand to press a bundle of bright pink gel pens into your palm, curling his fingers around yours.

“Figured what—” You feel frazzled, nodding in thanks as your other seat-mate passes you a few scattered packs, fighting to keep their amusement at bay. You’re still trying to piece together why Atsumu subjected you to a deluge of writing utensils as he settles into his seat, pulling out his dog-eared notebook. “Figured what out?”

There are so many they’re slipping out of your hands into your lap, a few threatening to drop between your seats as you struggle to keep them piled atop one another.

“Why you hate me.”

“I don’t _hate_ you.”

“It’s ‘cause I never gave you any of your pens back.” He sounds so satisfied with himself, so self-assured that a helpless smile spreads across your face, the sight making Atsumu light up, his eyes bouncing from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You giggle a little deliriously, crinkling plastic bubbling beneath your laughter as you lift the pink gel pens, a pack of black felt-tip Faber-Castells in your other hand. “What am I supposed to do with all of these?”

“Lend ‘em to me so I can forget to give ‘em back?”

Your brow furrows, doing little to hide the amusement glittering in your eyes as you look pointedly at the chewed-up pen cap he has spinning between his fingers. “I don’t think I _want_ you to give them back.”

His retort is cut short when the lecturer walks in, shuffling his papers as he clears his throat. You turn away, blank document at the ready, a multitude of pens stuffed into your backpack. You’re halfway through your first page when you realize Atsumu wasn’t late today, the thought accompanied by the sound of furious scratching from beside you. You give him a long look, biting the inside of your cheek when he catches your eye.

“You uh…” He smiles, sheepish and mischievous all at once. Today his gum is blue; peppermint tickles your nose. “You got a pen I can borrow?”

You lift your rattling bag and press it into his arms.

“Take your pick.”

Waiting for him once class ends becomes routine, although you don’t mean for it to. You’re struck by it sometimes when you look at him, while he’s paying for your drink, when he’s taking a sip of your tea, as he walks beside you as the two of you brave the chilly November air, desperate for what little sun is left. You don’t notice when he starts slipping closer and closer, ingraining himself in your life until being around him is as easy as breathing. Until it’s almost natural to reach out and poke his nose with your pen when he’s sleeping, drooling on his textbook in the library, the weight of finals in the bags under his eyes.

The way your heart skips when he sleepily flutters his eyes open is something you choose to think about another time, putting it off even as it grows in its intensity, carefully cultivating itself inside of you. There’s something to be said about the quiet ephemerality of falling for someone, the way new love sits like a gossamer veil, scattering diamonds through the air that sparkle and glint in the sun. You never noticed them before, never saw them lining his hair, spun gold even under a dreary winter sky. Never saw them flecking the amber of his eyes, or winking at the corner of his smile. Never, until now.

This month the gum that peeks out between his teeth is a soft green. He’s traded peppermint for spearmint, in honour of the season, he claims.

The taste of it is cool on your tongue when he kisses you under the awning of the café – _your_ café, half hidden by the shadows, only the snow bearing witness as it catches on your hair, lining your lashes with tiny gems he sweeps away. His hand slipping into yours is warm, the way his fingers slot between yours is _right._ The sweep of his thumb along the back of your hand, the light from the movie screen painting your skin with ever changing colour. The weight of his head on your thigh, his slow, even breathing making a stray lock of hair dance across his forehead. The soft fleece of his sweater that still smells like fabric softener and cologne sliding over your arms. The faded _Inarizaki High_ across the chest, the peeling silk-screened fox smiling above the cuff. It’s all so familiar now, woven so tightly in the fabric of your life you can’t remember a time when he wasn’t studying beside you, a time when he wasn’t there for midnight snacks, a time when seeing friends on the weekend didn’t include him and the rest of the varsity volleyball team.

Suna’s laughter no longer grates along your nerves, Osamu’s eyes no longer bore through your skin. The faded _she must hate you_ is little more than an inside joke, accompanied with laughter as you hide under your covers with Atsumu, a package of half-eaten Oreos between you.

Your game of musical chairs resumes, but now it’s always with Atsumu beside you, the four of you rotating, different patterns in a different lecture hall with the same professor. The same professor, the same droning voice, the same sea of pens that still sit at the bottom of your bag, now bundled according to colour so Atsumu can choose the vibrant ink he writes in every week. Blue for Mondays, green for Wednesdays, pink for Fridays. Everything accented in black and purple, doodles of red hearts and red roses and red volleyballs tattooed along the margins. Little smiley faces drawn along your skin, lightening bolts and five-pointed stars dotting the space between them. 

The tiny tattoo of your initials you write on his hand, in the crook of his thumb. Afterward he beams and curls his fingers around yours, ignoring your whispered, laughing plea that you need both hands to take notes. It’s sweet. _He’s_ sweet. It’s like you’re clambering hand and hand up a mountain of whipped cream, dodging rivers of caramel sauce, giggling the whole while.

The dreaminess sweeps you up, carries you along, and deposits you at your coffee table, your almost empty cup beside Atsumu’s, the sticky residue of caramel and whipped cream still thick on your lips as you stare intently at your laptop. A gentle hand scratches at your scalp, easing the tension building there, lulling you into slipping your eyes closed, your head lolling back for Atsumu to sweep your hair to the side.

“Are you seein’ anyone else?”

Your head shoots up so fast the room spins.

“Wh—I—” You clear your throat to buy yourself more time, butterflies returning in full force. “No?”

“ _No?_ ” He grins, rolling onto his side so he can peer over your shoulder at you. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

“I’m not.”

He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side, his shit-eating grin fading somewhat. “Not what?”

“I’m not seeing anyone else.”

It returns full force, blinding despite the way he strains his neck, shimmying closer to the edge of the couch so he can prop his head on your shoulder, his nose brushing the edge of your jaw, shivers cascading down your spine. “Guess that makes me kinda like your boyfriend.”

The word echoes, rattling around your skull even though you fight for indifference, certain by the way you feel his smile pressing into your neck that he’s already noticed the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers are winding into the strings of your borrowed hoodie. “Kinda like…?”

“Okay.” He sits up on the couch, a symphony of creaking springs as he stands. His hand wiggles at the edge of your vision, and you stare at the callouses that line his palm, the pink flush that sits under the skin. Atsumu runs hot – you know this. You’ve known this. You’ve felt the scalding heat radiating off of him every time his elbow brushes yours during lecture, every time he holds you late at night, snoring softly, mouth partially open. You’ve held his hand so many times it’s impossible to count, but looking at it now, after everything that’s been said (and hasn’t been said), it feels…different. The spark of something new, the sound of giddy laughter, balloons set free to the sky, soaring through the clouds.

You put your hand in his and let him tug you to standing.

“More than ‘kinda like’.” He sweeps a kiss across your forehead. “Can’t believe _I’m_ bringin’ it up.” He rubs the back of his head a little bashfully, hand still tightly holding onto yours, whether to reassure you or himself, you’re not entirely sure. “I figured you’d wanna talk about things before tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Atsumu’s exasperation is nothing but fond as he tucks you against his chest and you resist the urge to melt into his arms. “’S Valentine’s tomorrow. You got any plans?”

“No.” You give in and let your eyes flutter shut, pressing your cheek against his chest to hear the steady thrum of his heart, the way it picks up a little bit when he asks,

“Think you could go for dinner with your boyfriend?”

You feel like you’re floating on air, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt as you hold onto him a little tighter. “I can probably manage that.”

“Oh, good,” he chuckles, grinning just as widely when you stretch up to kiss him, hands cupping the nape of his neck and sliding along his shoulder. When he goes to pull away you chase him, drawing him back in, tugging him down to meet you halfway. You let your hands trace lazy circles along his back, shifting your hips into the patterns his thumb is drawing along them.

When you pull away, you’re panting, lips swollen, eyes hazy, the world tinted rose and alight with diamonds as you brush your knuckles along his jaw. “Do you…do you wanna…”

You can’t finish the sentence, still shy, voice caught in your throat. The way to your bedroom is different now, an immeasurable distance you can’t traverse without him. Your unfinished question hangs in the air, a promise to turn sleep-rumpled sheets into something else, a promise to let him in, to share a part of you he hasn’t seen yet.

“Yeah.” His hands slide up his hoodie, brush along the sensitive skin of your lower back, press your shivers back into your skin. “You sure?”

You don’t say anything, just kiss him, and lead him by the hand

Later as you lie tucked against his chest, his hand sweeping through your hair, you hum thoughtfully. The air is filled with words you’re not ready to say, like delicate morning dew evaporating with the rising sun. _I’m happy_ , you want to say, want to fill the words with every single piece of heart shaped confetti you can find, dust it with glitter, smother it in whipped cream and caramel sauce. What comes out instead is,

“Why me?”

“‘Why you’ what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I like ya. Isn’t that enough?”

You peek up at him, your palm flat against his sternum, splaying your fingers along his chest, tapping a nonsensical rhythm neither of you know. He doesn’t open his eyes, just tugs you impossibly closer. “I thought you would be the cheesy type to ask me to be your girlfriend _on_ Valentine’s Day.”

He smiles, eyes still shut, a little laugh puffing out from his nose. “Hmmmm maybe I should’ve.”

You shift to look back at his chest, to watch the invisible _I love you_ s that you write over and over across his skin. “Couldn’t wait?”

“Nope. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

He shimmies down, carefully rolls the two of you over until he’s burying his face in your shoulder, holding you tight against him.

“I got tired of playing games.”

The next morning dawns cloudless and dazzling.

Even though it’s cold enough to seep through your many layers, even though the sun’s so bright you have to squint to see anything, you can’t help bouncing on the balls of your feet as you wait for Atsumu. The ice that glazes every tree branch in sight turns the world into glass, a picture-perfect snow globe, snow and glitter settled like a blanket along the ground. Your breath puffs out, sparkling clouds of condensation that add to your joy. It’s the little things that matter; the little things that keep the world turning, pulling hand over hand along a delicate chain of paper hearts, strung together by spun sugar. A lazy kiss goodbye, a promise for dinner, a message that tells you he’ll meet you at the front after practice; just wait for him, okay?

The sun’s still shy mid-February, loathe to stay up for long. It’s slipping into evening as you continue to bounce up and down on your toes, no longer kept warm by your memories. You hear familiar voices and you turn eagerly, feeling mildly guilty for the way you deflate when you see Kita and Aran.

“You’re waitin’ for ‘Tsumu?” Aran smiles kindly, shaking his head when he sees the shiver you’re trying to keep at bay. “He was stayin’ behind for a sec with Suna and ‘Samu.”

“You should go meet him there,” Kita says, sweeping a critical eye over the way your mitten-clad hands are wrapped around each other, trying to massage feeling back into your fingers. “At least that way you can stay warm.”

You nod in thanks, wish them a happy Valentine’s Day, positively glowing at the sweet smiles they give you in return, your enthusiasm infectious as you obediently trot off towards the gym. Although the lights are on you can see through the windows that it’s empty, and you have half a mind to wait inside, if only to warm up, if only to surprise Atsumu when he comes out of the change-room, when your ear perks.

You can hear the faint sound of voices around the corner. Brightening at the sound of Atsumu’s unmistakable twang, you hurry over, only half-listening to what’s being said.

“—can’t tell her. I’m beggin’ you.”

“I’m not an asshole, ‘Tsumu.” ‘Samu’s voice is amused, derisive.

“You sure ‘bout that?”

“Do you _want_ me to tell her? What kind of moron would do that anyway?”

“’Tsumu would,” Suna says, dry and scathing.

“Fair.”

Atsumu growls. “I’m bein’ serious here!”

“I’m not gonna tell her. Chill.” Osamu pauses. “Who woulda thought she’d end up cuffin’ ya because of a stupid bet?”

_(Osamu raises a third finger, hand illuminated by the midday sun. The laughter from before has already died down, but that does nothing to lessen the curl of ‘Samu’s smile, the way mischief sparkles in his eyes._

_“Three: he flat out lies.”)_

Your heart stops.

There’s a low chuckle, the slow, sleepy sound stretching, echoing, no longer paired with the lazy, kind smile Suna gives you. No longer the tail-end of some snarky comment he mutters under his breath your way, just to make you laugh. “Yeah, all you had to do was fuck her, dumbass.”

Atsumu grumbles something you can’t catch. “Who’s next? How about that girl in your econ class? Ahh what’s her name uh…Shinobu? Shiori?”

“Yeah, Shiori.”

Suna laughs again, snapping his fingers. “Oh shit, yeah _her_.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“Why not? You get her to fuck you, and you get 20 bucks. You fuck it up and you lose 20 bucks.”

“I’m not tryna date anybody.”

“We’re not tellin’ you to pull a ‘Tsumu—“

Atsumu scoffs. “Fuck you.”

“—and if you gotta for a bit who cares? Just dump her after.”

“Yer just worried you won’t do as good as me.”

“You can’t bait me, ‘Tsumu.”

“Hey, since you’re _dating_ dating now, do we still have to pay you?”

“Obviously, _idiot_.”

“You’re not gonna say somethin’ about love bein’ its own reward or whatever?”

“Nah. You guys are helpin’ me pay for dinner tonight—Hey, what time is it?”

“I dunno. Check your phone.”

“My phone’s dead, _asshat_.”

“How the fuck am I s’pposed to know that?”

“It’s 6:15.”

“Aw _shit,_ I’m fuckin’ late—”

“You’re so whipped—”

Atsumu rounds the corner leading the pack, handsome as always, all that confidence crumbling to dust when he sees you standing there. You can see it, the delight melting swiftly into pure, unadulterated fear and for a vicious moment you’re happy.

_(He flat out lies.)_

He’s frozen by the corner and you’re unwilling to move, just staring at him across the distance between you, feeling the anguish sweeping your body dissipating in the face of the anger licking its way through your veins. It’s an awful standstill, nothing but loneliness and betrayal at your side as you struggle through the ringing in your ears. You can see it in Suna and Osamu’s faces, can see that they’ve already figured out how much you heard from the way they can’t really look you in the eye, the way their smiles are frozen stiff, the way they keep shifting from foot to foot as if fighting the urge to run away.

“What’re you doin’ all the way over here?”

You can only guess at the expression Atsumu has on right now because you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but at his right shoulder, at the edge of the burgundy sweatshirt you’d claimed so often as your own, the hood folding soft along his coat collar.

“I was waiting for you.”

Even to your own ears your voice is flat; empty. You haven’t stopped staring at his friends, daring them to look you in the eye as the sick realization that they were only ever _his_ friends, never yours, because they… They _knew. They knew_ and this whole time you were just—

Who else had known? Who else had watched you trip head over heels running after Atsumu, chasing after nothing more than the thought of him, scrambling to catch up, to reach out just for him to take his hand away at the last second?

“Out here? It’s freezin’.” You can see the smear of burgundy move closer, see it shift over until you’re face to face with it. His coat’s unzipped, and normally you’d kick up some sort of fuss about him catching a cold, but right now you can’t stop staring at the faded _Inarizaki High_ printed across his chest, the lettering shifting as he cautiously reaches out to you. “C’mon. Let’s go somewhere warm, and then we can get goin’.”

His hand. Bare, even with the chill that pervades the air. Calloused, flushed pink, his body always running hot. You can feel the ghost of it wrapping around your waist, tangling in your hair, curling around your hand, bathed in the dusty orange glow of the sky at dusk as he says, _“I got tired of playing games.”_

**_(He flat out lies.)_ **

You flinch back as if he’s scalded you, knocking his hands away. You feel like your lungs are about to burst, the iron band crushing your chest growing tighter, tighter.

“Don’t touch me.”

You step back but he’s reaching out again, sweeping you up and trying to pull you close, and you can’t—you _can’t_ let it happen, because if it does you know you’ll never pull away. You know you’ll let him and his silver tongue smooth the whole thing away, that he’ll wash your hurt away with dirty hands, that he’ll hold you close and whisper that you’re safe even as the ice cracks beneath you.

“C’mon, just give me a chance to explain—”

“Let _go_.”

“I just—I know I was stupid, okay? But I’m serious about—”

“I _said **let GO**_.”

You brace your hands against his chest and push _back_ , struggling from his grasping hands, your heart hammering in your chest. His hands have flown up beside his head, eyes wide as you choke back the tears burning in your eyes. No no _no_ , you don’t want to cry, you want to _scream_. You don’t want your words to get lost, wretched and watery and weak, you want him to know what he’s done, how he’s ripped you open from the inside out, leaving you to bleed out into the snow.

People are staring, whispering amongst themselves as they watch, and you wonder what kind of sight the two of you must make: golden boy Atsumu, standing here defenseless, trying to placate the vicious beast snarling at him. Hand outstretched, speaking soothingly, softly, telling you that this isn’t the place, that you can talk it out if you’ll just follow him somewhere else.

You ignore it in favour of baring your teeth, letting your hurt splatter out for all to see, an ugly wound carved along your chest, rending through the soft, vulnerable length of your throat.

“You’re 22. You’re _22 years old_ and you still thought, what, that it’d be funny? To make a—a—bet? A _bet_? Are you kidding me?” Your voice pitches higher and higher with hysteria, louder and louder just because the furtive way he’s looking at your unwelcome audience is so _satisfying_. Let them see; let them know about the way he’s hurt you, about the knife he hid behind his back, hid in every smile, hid in every single caress, every lingering kiss. Smiling while he bled you dry. You stumble, struggle for words, feeling your tears freeze icy on your cheeks, needling at your skin. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

It echoes, drifts, spreads like noxious smoke through the air to coil around him. It chokes him where he stands, the words lost in his throat as he stammers out something you barely hear in favour of asking again,

“ _What’s wrong with you?_ ”

You dig your fingers into your eyes, losing yourself in the starbursts of colour that explode behind your eyelids, in the pain that prickles along the edges as you press harder. “ _Fuck_ , I just feel so—I feel so _stupid_.”

There’s the crunch of snow and you whip your hands off your face, blinking through the swarm of dark spots and the shifting blur of colour to watch a smudge of burgundy come closer, a hand outstretched but hovering just shy of touching your arm. You stare at his hand, at the thumb that’s slid along your mouth, the fingers that’ve caressed your cheek. The palm you’ve pressed your face to, the inside of his wrist you’ve brushed kisses across. The cuffs of that stupid hoodie you’ve tugged over your hands countless times, the little fox forever smiling as it looks up at you. You think burgundy might be your least favourite colour now, right behind the pale gold of his hair.

Atsumu’s voice is still quiet, hushed, like the careful drawing of a curtain, the closing of a door. A reminder that you’re outside, that people are near, that anybody could hear about what he’s done to you, could take it and use it to tarnish the bright shine of his reputation.

“—I’m tellin’ you I’m serious about you—”

“ _Now_ ,” you interrupt, voice barbed and bringing him to a halt. “You’re serious _now_ , but if you hadn’t been, I guess we’d be breaking up today, right?”

His fingers flinch. Curl into a fist. Fight to keep from trembling.

“I’m tellin’ the truth. You mean a lot to me.”

It’s so quiet you almost miss it, so soft it pushes the air from your lungs, and it almost seems unfair. So, so unfair that now is the moment he’s choosing to be vulnerable, now is the moment he’s showing the side of him you only ever see when moonlight pours through your window. It’s too sweet for this moment, out of place when it’s not surrounded by tangled sheets and the warmth radiating from his arms around you. Out here with nothing but barren trees, austere buildings, and the prying eyes of passersby it makes your teeth rot and your jaw clench.

“No, you’re not serious about me.” It’s barely more than a whisper, and you hate yourself for it. You clear your throat, lift your head. Look resolutely at his shoulder, and the edge of his hood. “You used me as a pawn to boost your stupid _fucking **ego**_.”

Your nails dig into your palms and you force yourself to stay still, to remain strong even as he dares to take another step closer. You can smell his cologne, and you hate that you still crave him. “Just gimme a chance to explain. Please.”

“You—” You swallow thickly and force the words out. “No, I’m done.”

You turn into the wind, feeling your tears trail hot down your face. Atsumu skids along the ice behind you, swearing as he darts in front, halting you in your tracks. Arms extended, hands outstretched, almost grabbing you by the shoulders before he jerks them away, like he’s been burned.

“Done with… Wait, done with what? Done with _what_? With us?”

“Us?” You almost choke on your laughter, an ugly, strangled sound that makes him wince. “What _us_? No. No there is no _us_. There’s just you—you and your _bet._ This entire ‘relationship’ has just been you and your _stupid_ _bet_.”

Atsumu’s still blinking blankly at you, and you fight the urge to ask him how someone so smart could be so _stupid_. “So, this is it?”

“Haven’t you been listening? Haven’t you heard a single thing I’ve—” You gesture between the two of you, mitten a blur of colour behind your teary eyes. “ _This_ is nothing. _This_ never happened. _This_ was just a joke made at m-my expense—”

It’s too hard to keep the tears at bay, too _exhausting_ to hide them behind your swiftly rusting armour. He reaches out a tentative hand towards you and you flinch, yanking your hand back.

“C’mon just. Just—” He’s looking around desperately, searching for something that isn’t there. “Just—just yell at me some more, okay? Or—or slap me or somethin’ or swear at me or call me names—I deserve it. I know I do, I _know_ , just…please don’t go.”

Atsumu ducks forward, pointing at his cheek, pointing at the desperation that furrows his brow, that widens the whites of his eyes, that tugs the corners of his mouth down.

You almost want to do it, your hand twitching in your mitten, brushing well-worn wool, but there’s a glimmer of hope in his eye; the need for absolution, the desire to take whatever pain you’re willing to inflict on him is so plain on his face. As if it could ever be equivalent. As if it could wipe his hands clean. As if the two of you wounding each other over and over and over again until you’re both bruised and bloody could be a happy ending…or beginning.

You shake your head, feeling your tears soak hot into your scarf, only to turn cold in the frigid air. Frost creeps in, spiderwebbing through the cooling ashes of your anger as you step around him, away from sleepy mid-afternoon naps, away from temporary tattoos littering your hands, away from the tiny heart you drew on his wrist. Away from him joking—no, _lying_ and telling you it must mean he wears his heart on his sleeve. Away from him, the nauseating ghost of his hands still on your skin.

You know Miya Atsumu from the way you carefully, methodically remove him from your life. From the way you block him, delete him, erase him from your phone. From the sight of him sitting at the end of a row in lecture, two coffee cups on his desk. The hopeful expression on his face, the drawn, guilty half-smiles that Osamu and Suna accompany him with. The way his face crumples when you take a moment, take a breath, and resolutely walk to the opposite side of the room, surrounding yourself with strangers, a sea of pens no longer rattling around in your bag, but at the bottom of a trash bin.

You know him through the sliver of your cracked open front door, your friend’s pinched face glaring at him as she hisses, “Haven’t you done enough already?”

Through an unknown number, his voice desperate on voicemail, _please just pick up, just call me back, just gimme a chance—_

Through the window of a bookstore, rooted to the ground as you watch his face light up, tentative, still filled with longing—still riddled with _guilt._

You know him by the way he waves, hesitant, hopeful, a smile made of fragile glass upon his face, a brittle olive branch extending from his hand.

But you’ve lost more of yourself to him than you care to admit, and so you snap your book shut and shake your head, your face crumpling as you try not to cry, pushing the thorns that scrape along your ribs away, digging them further into the tender flesh of your hands. Silently telling him, _don’t_ , ignoring the way your chest feels like it’s splitting open.

It’s hard to remember sometimes that he doesn’t deserve your kindness, your forgiveness. Hard to remember that the sweet, sugary memories you shared have done nothing but decay with time, tainted by the poison slipping from his tongue to yours. Hard to remember that you deserve more, despite feeling like you’ve been cast adrift, nothing to hold onto, nobody to cling to, no way to keep your head above the loneliness that threatens to drown you.

But you’d rather be alone, lying in bed at night and letting your tears soak your pillow as the other side of the bed stays cold, than looking at him every day and wondering when he’ll slip the knife between your ribs, pressing his lips to yours as you fade away in his arms.

There’s nothing left for you there. Nothing but empty promises, rotting from the inside out. So, you turn and walk away, leaving him alone, leaving him behind, leaving him standing outside with nothing else, but the distance between you.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy White Day.
> 
> Cry with me on tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


End file.
